Payback For Squealing

Payback for Squealing

As Trent walked out of the club, he was aware of the little man following him out the door. This was the second place he'd gone that night where he'd noticed the little guy sitting a dozen feet away, sipping a drink, seemingly minding his own business. He'd thought nothing of it. He'd only noticed the guy because he was so damned tiny: maybe four and a half feet tall, spindly little limbs and totally bald, not even any eyebrows. About ten feet down the street Trent stopped, turned, crossed his big arms. His follower walked hunched over with weak little steps, but he stopped when Trent did. The little guy also crossed his arms. It was 3 am, and other than the thump of the bass from inside the club, there was no noise. This part of town was pretty dead at this hour. "Mr. Wood?" asked the little man in a wheezy voice. "You a fan?" Trent asked. He'd had a hell of a career as a bodybuilder back in the 90s during the heyday, and he still made a living doing guest poses and modeling for supplement companies. Trent Wood's competition days were long over, but he was still a big name in the sport. Unfortunately that carried with it the downside of a lot of creepy little fags wanting to buy some time close to his muscles. That kind of thing creeped Trent out. "Oh no," said the little man. When he stepped into the street light, Trent realized that the guy was probably in his 30s, just woefully underdeveloped and completely hairless. All night Trent had thought his creepy admirer had been a shriveled up old-timer. Maybe he had some kinda syndrome. "I'm not a fan at all. I've been sent by my employer to deal with you." "Deal with me?" Trent said, an eyebrow raised. He may have been years from stepping onstage, but he was still a gigantic freak of offseason mass with a big roid gut and a frame like a refrigerator. His sickly assailant looked to weigh about two-hundred pounds less and was no bigger than a middle-schooler. The door to the club swung open and Gunther, the head of security, stepped out to get some air. He gave Trent a nod when he noticed the straggler on the sidewalk with him. "Everything okay big guy?" Gunther asked. "Nothing I can't handle," Trent called back. His follower was now standing next to him, and Trent could barely see the little guy over the arc of his pecs. Gunther chuckled and headed back inside. The follower was staring straight up at Trent now, completely unswayed by the bodybuilder's massive size. His mouth curled up in a thin little grin revealing a dark yellow smile. Something about the little man smelled wrong--like an infected sore. Trent felt some goosebumps on the back of his neck, but otherwise didn't move an inch. "I was hired by a man named Rocco Felicitano," the little man said, and now Trent had goosebumps just about everywhere. A few years before, Trent escaped the attention of some DEA agents trying to bust him for distributing steroids by dropping the name of the main supplier. Rocco went to prison for life, but he still had serious mob connections on the outside. Trent had actually believed he'd escaped retribution--until now. Rocco Felicitano had a reputation for sadistic vengeance, and if this feeble man had really been hired by Rocco, it meant there was something Trent wasn't picking up about this situation. It meant serious trouble, too. "Hired to do what?" he said, taking effort to steady his voice. The little man just snickered, a high-pitched wheeze. "I didn't squeal on Rocco, I swear," Trent blurted out. "I am neither judge nor jury," the man said. "I'm simply out to perform a job for payment." Trent scanned the little guy for a weapon--a gun, maybe a needle, something to subdue him. His assailant raised both of his spider-thin arms, hands open. "Oh, I am truly unarmed, Mr. Wood," he said, doing a slow turn to reveal that he really didn't have anything on him. The little man's eyes slowly traveled the outline of Trent's large, bulky frame. "Certainly I don't pose a threat to a man of your stature," he croaked. "A man your size could squash me like an insect, no?" Triggered by the phrase, Trent clenched his fists. He was right, he could--and he planned on doing it sooner than later. "But you see, I am an artist with talents specific to getting rid of fellows just like you," the man said. The little man reached out slowly, his arm shaking so much Trent thought he might die from the effort, and poked Trent's massive pec with one bony finger. Trent scanned the area quickly: Gunther was inside, there was nobody on the street and an alleyway behind him. "I've had enough of this shit!" Trent roared, grabbing the little man and shoving him into the alley. He stomped after him, his whole torso flexed with rage. He felt a sharp pain in the back of his head, then vertigo like he'd just stepped off a rollercoaster. He blinked his eyes to clear them, then looked around. Somehow he was lying on his back in the alley now. He looked down to see weak, wobbly limbs. He felt tired and so tiny. Every movement felt slow, and he heard a chuckle--it chilled him to hear the sound of his own laugh coming from someone else, but as he looked up, he saw a gigantic man approaching--and he looked exactly like him! Or at least, how Trent used to look. "What--how did you--" Trent wheezed, staring up at the impossibly huge body in front of him--a body that he'd built, that used to be his. "I told you," said the man in Trent's old deep voice, "I am an artist." He grabbed Trent's fragile shoulders and hoisted him into the air. Trent thought he would be sick from the feeling of being lifted off the ground like he was nothing. He kicked out with all the strength this little body had--a pathetic effort--and then big fists that used to be his clenched around his throat. The snapping of his twig-like neck was the last thing Trent ever heard. With a sigh, the assassin set the tiny, broken body back on the ground. He examined his new form--it was massive, stronger than anything he'd ever inhabited before, and quite attractive to boot. His hand slid into his back pocket and fished out a wallet--full of cash and cards. In a few days, the withered form he preferred would have magically healed, and he could leave Trent's form behind, a lifeless shell to be found later on. They would assume he'd died from heart failure due to steroid use, and the little assassin would move on to his next victim. But until then, he thought, sliding one massive paw into his pants and feeling the massive cock that was now his, he would live as Trent Wood and have a little fun. ------------------ I cobbled this story together really quickly after rediscovering a book from my youth. The third book in the Forgotten Realms series The Cleric Quintet (Night Masks) opens on a scene where a huge warrior has his body-swapped by a weakling assassin who kills his old body, waits for it to heal, then leaves the swapped-body as an empty shell. At 16, I wasn't expecting this opening scene--nor was I expecting the several weeks of furious masturbating it coaxed out of me. I had no idea what about it had gotten me so torqued. It wasn't long before I read Big Time and started twisting off to quirky stories seven days a week, year-round. Bodyswap is a hell of a genre. My favorites, it should be obvious, are stories where a big guy gets swapped into a little body. It differs from muscle theft in that the victim doesn't just lose his size and his power, but his whole identity. Beyond being unrecognizable, there's another person running around as him, living his life, and there's nothing he can do about it. There's something spectacular about the idea that a big beast of a dude who believes in the permanence of his best qualities--his size, his strength, his ability to dominate most everyone else--gets it all snatched away, and he finds himself in a puny body that he formerly regarded as weak or insignificant. Talk about taking a guy down a peg. I wrote this story quickly to break up the monotonous formula of the first few stories in my queue--basically, big football player is made weak and helpless and bullied. They're formulaic because that's what gets me off. I'm all for creativity but what pushes my buttons is a certain sequence of things. Still, to keep my readers' interests I'll throw in a little diversity once in awhile.

Juicemonkeys (intro)

Deacon’s hand was shaking a bit as he took a pull off his coffee cup, gripping the steering wheel with the other. His brain was exhausted, still drenched in sleep, but his body was so jittery, amped from his anger. He focused a bit, steeling the nerves in his hand, and then took one more sip of his coffee before setting it back into the cup holder. He pulled into the first parking space in front of the Fitness Factory. The whole lot was empty except two other cars, and he could guess whose those were. Three in the morning was late, but there was always a consistent “late-night” crowd, a handful of people who didn’t work the 9 to 5 schedule. Deac’s best guess was that the door had been locked, and anyone approaching the doors to the 24-hour club found themselves turned away. This was something the corporate office was going to end up getting complaints about. It was just one more thing on his list. It was, however, at the bottom of his list. Locking the door just had to be done. One glance in the rearview mirror told Deac that the large coffee he’d sucked down hadn’t perked up his drooping face. He wiped his face with both hands a few times, then reexamined to find no change. He sighed deeply, his head slumping against the steering wheel. The corporate office at the Fitness Factory was always coming down on him for his “image in the eyes of subordinates.” Stomping in there still half-asleep, ready to fly off the handle because of the news he’d just gotten wasn’t going to help things. He took a deep breath. Derek would be working, and Deac reminded himself that Derek was a hard-worker and a trusted assistant. There was no reason to blow up at him. HE certainly had nothing to do with what happened. He took a deep breath, reminding himself, “Whatever happens, I will work through it,” and stepped out of the car. It had begun sprinkling lightly, and he closed his eyes and stared upward, hoping it would refresh him a bit. It didn’t. When he opened his eyes, he noticed the “O” in the “Fitness Factory” sign was blinking. “I just had that fixed two months ago!” Deac thought, shaking his head. The night’s to-do list kept getting longer and loner. An orange light blinked next to the card-scanner by the front door, meaning restricted access, just as Deac had guessed. Nobody was there, so Deac could take a little time in cleaning up this mess. He swiped his card and walked in. The front area of the gym was completely empty, nobody even at the front desk. Even the music had been turned off, which was strange, but Deac was guessing that was Derek’s work. Nobody was there, so the music was unnecessary, and Derek knew that Deac liked the quiet when he was stressed out. He walked through the main gym area to the more private area in the back, the “Extreme Training Zone.” As Deac walked through the swinging double doors into the ETZ he saw Derek working behind his desk. Derek wasn’t that tall, maybe 5’9, but he’d spent the past 12 years of his life packing muscle onto his frame, for football, then a short competitive bodybuilder career, and then just because he liked it. Since he’d started working for Deac he’d blown up like a tick, his muscles swelling to huge, bloated proportions. Only the upper third of him extended above the desk, but his huge, mammoth pecs strained the fabric on his Fitness Factory shirt, his hard nipples poking out. His arms hung out at an angle from his body, pushed out by his thick, protruding lats, and looked like two regular men’s legs, straining the seams on the sleeves. He had jet black hair and cool, crystal blue eyes, but his head looked very small between the big, thick shoulders that sloped out and down. The corporate offices had mandated that Derek only be allowed to work out back, in the ETZ, having to use the loading dock to come and go. Derek, who was always in fairly good spirits, took it as a compliment. Many people considered him a freak, but he’d worked hard to become a freak. Deac, on the other hand, thought he was perfect. “So,” Deac began, walking up and extending his hand. Derek’s huge, thick hand surrounded his as they shook. “Tell me what happened.” “Well,” Derek said, closing the folder in his hands and setting it on the desk, “he came in to lift. He was the only one here, thank god. Everything was pretty standard. Workout went pretty good, then he headed for the locker room. I just happened to need to piss at that point, and I headed back there and… there he was.” Deac shook his head. He kept trying to remind himself that this could’ve been worse. “I just don’t get it,” he said, his voice reflecting just a hint of ire. “Joe, of all of them… I mean, I chose him for a reason, and he didn’t give us any indication…” Deac shook his head, beginning to pace. “I would’ve understood some of the others, but… this just baffles me!” Deac stopped pacing and took a deep breath. He was starting to do exactly what the corporation had warned him many times about. Derek stared at him, his face expressionless, and Deac couldn’t help but examine the young man’s facial features. His jaw was so strong and square, his cheekbones so solid. Everything about his face was so thick and angular, but everything below his chin was so… round and massive. Such an odd, but beautiful, contrast, Deac thought. “What’s the status on the situation?” Deac asked. “I left everything exactly as I found it,” Derek said, motioning toward the locker room. “And the ‘situation’ has been contained, but not taken care of.” “Thank you, Derek,” Deac said, fighting against the knot in his throat to be able to smile. He started toward the locker room, ready to deal with what he was about to see. “I need you to pull up Joe’s file and go through the information coded Red. Set that into motion while I take care of what’s in here.” “Already begun, Deac,” Derek said. Deacon gave Derek the thumbs-up as he pushed his way into the locker room. Deac took a careful step into the locker room and took in the whole scene. Most people would just see a towel, some gym clothes, some guy’s cell phone, left around by some lazy kid. But Deac knew better. Just glancing around he could feel the scene playing out in his head with every detail he took in. Breathing in, he found he could still SMELL Joe. As Deac approached Joe’s open locker, he took a moment to close his eyes and breathed DEEPLY. The scent was overwhelming, and he recognized it immediately as Axe body spray, sweat and Joe’s unique odor. With some of the guys, Deac had become so familiar that he could walk into a room after two had left and identify which two of his men had just been there. Deac took a peek into the open locker and found a photo taped inside. “Joe, you’re 26. You’re not in high school,” Deac said in a patronizing tone as he peeled the photo off the door. Joe and a very pretty girl filled up the whole frame, Joe’s huge arms wrapping around the girl, Joe kissing the top of her head while she nestled into his huge body. Did Joe have a girlfriend? “I was unaware of this,” Deac said, nearly losing his calm for a moment before he took a deep breath and relaxed again, returning to the picture. For a moment, Deac felt himself getting lost in Joe’s photo, looking at the way Joe’s goofy adorable ears stuck out, his strong jaw, his dimples, his bright eyes. He always loved the way Joe’s thick neck slammed right into his huge traps. There were times when Deac had wanted to take a tape measure, find out the distance between each of Joe’s wide shoulders. He laughed as he stared at the photo. “Wouldn’t be that hard anymore, or impressive.” In the locker he found Joe’s lifting gloves, a pair of wrist-wraps, a tape measure… and a preloaded syringe, the plunger-lock still in place. Deac examined the syringe, the chamber full of light brown oil. That damned needle was responsible for all of this mess, in a way. Deac also found a couple of cans of Endo-rush, a stick of deodorant and a can of Axe. Deac sprayed the Axe right in front of him, pumping the air full of Joe again. He shivered as he inhaled, feeling a stirring in his pants. His skin almost felt like it was tingling. For a moment, he was almost enjoying himself, basking in Joe, until he noticed again the one object in the room that hadn’t belonged to Joe, a small black box covered in a black silk cloth, sitting at the end of the bench. Reminded again what he was doing, he cleared his head and went back to examining the scene. Joe was probably giving himself a quick shot of Axe, Deac envisioned, slapping on some pit-stick before heading out the visit the lady. He probably figured she’d complain about the sweatiness, but would still be a little turned on as long as he didn’t stink too bad. He was probably setting the can of Axe back in the locker when he felt something, like a million tiny needles all over his body, and it probably caused him to pause, catch his breath. Deac knelt, finding Joe’s size 14 right shoe turned on his side. It was empty, the right one. Joe’d probably felt dizzy, and when the sensations didn’t abate immediately, he stepped backward, placed one hand on the locker, suddenly realizing that when his foot moved, his sneaker hadn’t! His foot had just slipped effortlessly out of his tightly laced sneaker. Turning around, Deac found the left shoe, with a sock in it, next to Joe’s right sock. He picked up Joe’s right sock and sniffed--MAN did that foot stink! Despite himself, Deac took another sniff before moving on. Joe had probably, at that point, begun to wonder what was going on, his vision switching from focused to unfocused, his mind barely able to comprehend what was happening. My shoes fell off? Hunh? Deac imagined him thinking, his mind not equipped to figure out just what was happening to him. The room probably looked slightly different to him at this point, but Joe probably couldn’t put his finger on it, just that he was suddenly barefoot and he hadn’t planned it. About a foot away from the lockers, Deac found Joe’s gym-shorts. As he picked them up, he found Joe’s blue boxer-briefs still inside. Deac clutched the clothes tightly in his hands and raised them to his face, inhaling the most manly of Joe’s scents, imagining that a portion of Joe’s testosterone had traveled in the sweat from his balls into the fabric, and now Deac was absorbing it into his own body. Deac imagined that after a moment, the tingling sensation had probably begun to grow stronger for Joe, and in a panic, he headed for the door--until his shorts slipped easily off. He probably tried to catch them and hold them up until he found himself stumbling around in the mess. At this point he had probably gathered that the bench was now only a few inches lower than he was tall, and that it was now several more feet across. The room was taking on different proportions to him at this point, too, seeming now more like a spacious gymnasium than a mere locker room. As Joe stood there, trying to figure out why his shorts and boxers wouldn’t stay up, the mesh material probably slipped through his dwindling fingers, and big Joe found himself standing there wearing his cutoff tee like a night-shirt, his arms and necks nowhere near filling the holes they poked out of. Deac walked to the door and yanked up Joe’s XXL workout tee, the sleeves roughly cut off. He held it up, remembering just how huge Joe used to be, his 6’5” hulking form casting an imposing shadow on everyone. Despite his size, Joe had never been a mean guy. He was firm with his opinions, and rarely did people disagree with him, intimidated by his imposing form and his strong, deep voice, but he was generally good-natured and very loyal and honest. Generally, Deac thought, shaking his head. Joe had probably realized, starting to drown in his shirt, that time was a factor, and he started heading for the door as quickly as possible. Deac imagined, for a moment, Joe’s huge, athletic body sprinting desperately, a determined look on his face, as the over-sized looking bright red t-shirt, still soaked with sweat on the sides, grew larger and larger around him. Then, before he ever made it to the door, Joe probably tripped, and suddenly was surrounded in what looked like a collapsing red tent. He probably lay there for awhile, trying to take in the new perspective, covered in red fabric AND lying on red fabric. From the outside, he was just an oddly shaped little bump in the fabric, almost human shaped except way lumpier. Joe probably took a moment, trying to dig this way and that, struggling to find “outside.” Maybe he finally reached the sleeve, recognized the sloppily cut edges as he climbed out, a lump in his throat as he tried to doubt what his eyes were telling him. Then he probably stepped out, looked around. The first thing he probably saw was the door, Deac thought. It was his goal, what he’d been racing for, and he’d made it, but the handle now seemed a thousand feet away. Joe probably stood there, momentarily ashamed to be naked, but overwhelmed by the immenseness of his surroundings. It probably seemed that there was no longer anything his size, everything was huge. Even the tiles on the floor were wider than he was tall. Then, Deac thought, Joe probably made a realization. This world may have looked alien and foreign, completely out of sync with himself now, but it was still the locker room, and it still worked the way it always had. Someone, Joe probably thought, could come in at any moment. Joe probably looked at the door, picturing it swinging into him, smashing him against the wall, the person responsible not even aware that he’d just squashed a little 6’ man. Even worse, Joe probably imagined, would be a single sneaker coming down on him, the owner not expecting a tiny little bodybuilder to be in the way. Joe probably cringed, panicked, and searched for an alternative. Deac returned to the bench and looked down, seeing Joe’s cell phone, open, sitting on his blue towel. Joe probably turned to the bench, seeing his towel, now the size of a football field, hanging some feet above the floor. He probably sprinted to it, his naked shame quickly overwhelmed by his need for survival, and then leapt with all of his might for the hanging blue tendrils. Deac imagined Joe missing the first time, his huge pecs smashing against the hard tile floor, knocking the wind out of him. He probably rolled over, in pain, frustrated, maybe even whimpering a bit, and stared up at the bench above him. Deac pictured Joe backing up again, this time running with twice the fury, leaping up and finally snatching the furry blue fabric, gripping it with all his might. From there, Deac picture, it was all upper-body, hand over hand, as he climbed up the gigantic blue towel, his 6’ inch body causing it to sway back and forth. Any normal man would’ve failed, and even for an immensely strong beast of a man like Joe it was probably a Herculean feat. When he got to the top, Joe probably collapsed, his muscles feeling turned to lead, rolling around in pain and exhaustion, almost blacking out. Then he stood, slowly approaching the goal: his cell phone. It was usually something he kept in his pocket, an almost insignificant weight, but now Joe probably found it to be almost as big as he was. His arms still twitching from his climb up the towel, Deac imagined Joe rubbing his hands together, grabbing on to the cell phone and trying to pry the two halves open. Deac smiled as he put together the scene, his own hand rubbing over the towel where the struggle had probably happened. He pictured Joe’s clenched teeth, his bulging eyes, his face turning red, his neck doubling in thickness and tripling in veininess, his arms pumped to double their size, his whole body shaking and then… it moved, the two halves opened with a loud snap. Again, Joe probably collapsed, exhausted, suddenly shocked, Deac imagined, to find himself resting on keys the size of road signs. He probably, Deac imagined, thought for a moment, wondering who to call. His girlfriend maybe? No, Deac didn’t think Joe would want her to see him like this, a 6 inch man in need of help. The front desk? Perhaps get Derek to come save him? But as Deac looked at the cell phone, which was still on and still left on the number Joe was trying to call, he found the answer: “Walter,” Deac said with a grin, “your best friend. How cute. You almost made it, Joe.” Joe probably got Walter’s number entered and was about to reach for the TALK key, Deac imagined with a grin, when he felt an unbelievable rush in the air, and a huge shadow cast over him, something blotting out all the light. In shock at the sudden eclipse, Joe probably spun around for a moment, seeing an unbelievable mountain of man as Derek reached down to apprehend him. Deac pictured Derek’s sausage fingers wrapping around Joe’s tiny (but still thick, for his size) body, the bulky little appendages failing but not enough to elicit any reaction from his captor. With a deep breath, Deacon turned his attention to the black box. With his thumb and forefinger, he gently gripped the black silk cloth, hesitating slightly. Up until that moment he’d been just imagining things, but he knew that the minute he pulled away that cloth, what existed only in his fantasies would suddenly become reality. With one tug the cloth fell aside, and then he saw it. The black-tinted cube was about a foot on each side, and while it was dark it was still translucent. Inside Deac could see the tiny form, standing there, not moving. Deac picked up the black box and stared into it. His hands against the glass were bigger than the little man inside, and it almost made him smile. He pulled his face close, and saw Joe standing there, naked, shaking. He was probably making up his mind, whether to react with rage or to beg, maybe just terrified at what Deac could possibly be doing there. It was funny, Deac thought, that Joe had all the same parts, all the same size in proportion to one another. His neck was still amazingly thick, his shoulders still broad and heavily muscled, but gazing in at him, they didn’t seem huge, impressive, imposing anymore. Now Joe just looked like a little pet. All of that size and thickness seemed to be neutralized now that he was smaller than Deac’s face. Deac took a look at Joe’s penis, hanging impressively between his legs. He’d always wondered what that had looked like. Deac made eye contact with Joe, took in the beautiful little face, the adorable ears, but the look of despair and anger made it hard to see Joe’s beauty. Deac set the box down and undid the latch at the top. The box was soundproof but not airtight, so Joe could breathe but his insignificant little thoughts would not be heard. Flipping the top open, Deac just stared down at Joe, hands on his hips. Joe craned his neck to take in all of Deac, clenching and unclenching his fists. Then, the little man finally reacted. “You… You did this to me!” he squeaked. Joe’s loud, booming voice had reduced along with his stature. It was pure physics, smaller vocal chords will produce a more slight, higher pitched noise. Every time Deac heard a big meathead open his new tiny mouth, though, it always surprised him. But still, the question troubled him, and Deac had to respond. “Me, Joe?” Deac began. “ME? I did not do this, Joe. You did this to yourself. I’ll never understand why, and I don’t want you to explain. I can guess.” He reached up to the locker and pulled down the picture. “Is this her? The girlfriend you never mention? She’s the cause of this, isn’t she?” Joe stared up, his eyes narrowing, his jaw clenching in pain as he stared at the photo, now a giant billboard above him. “It’s always a girlfriend, Joe,” Deac said, tearing the picture carefully in half, separating the part of Joe from the part with his girl. “If you’d just told me we could’ve worked something out, but what’s done is done.” Deac slowly, cruelly crumpled the torn photo of Joe’s girlfriend into a ball right in front of the tiny man. “And now, just so you know, she’ll never know where you went. You’ll be gone, and she’ll be heartbroken for weeks, maybe months. Every time her phone rings she’ll hope it’s you. She’ll wake up in the middle of the night, thinking you’ve come home to her. But you never ever will and she’ll never know why. She’ll probably blame herself.” Deac tossed the crumpled photo into the garbage. “She’ll find somebody else, though. Maybe Walter will step up into your shoes. Maybe some skinny little asshole who’ll treat her like dirt, cheat on her, slap her around, but she’ll cling to him because she’s too afraid of being left alone like you did to her.” Deac took a look down. Joe had turned away, his legs were trembling, one fist held up against his mouth. “Don’t worry, little Joe, it’s better this way,” said Deac, banging on the top of the box to get Joe’s attention. “She wouldn’t want a six inch man. No woman ever would.” He held Joe’s half of the photo down next to Joe. It was bigger than he was now. Joe stared at it, overwhelmed. He turned away, but Deac reached down and turned him back. That was the first time Deac’s fingers touched Joe’s dense little body. The feel of the solid, meaty, manly flesh being casually manipulated under his fingertips was amazing. It was electric. And he wanted more. But unfortunately, he knew he couldn’t have more. He had a job to do. “I was going to make you the strongest, most powerful man in the world,” Deac said, lifting Joe’s photo out of the box and staring at it, remembering “the old Joe.” “You could’ve had whatever you wanted. Men would’ve trembled in your wake. Women would’ve been unable to resist your commands. It would’ve been amazing, Joe. But you had to listen to some silly little girl. And you’ll regret that mistake for the rest of your life.” Joe had begun crying, although he was trying to hold it back. Deac could tell, even though he wasn’t close, Joe’s eyes had become red, tiny streams of liquid were pouring out of each side, his chest heaving, his dick bobbing with each heave. “Take a look,” Deac said turning the photo back at Joe. “That’s the last image of your smiling face you’ll ever see. You’ll forget it after awhile, forget about your old life. And you’ll just wish for your new life to end.” Or, Deac said, considering an option he didn’t want to present, perhaps Joe would be so perverted and twisted by the ordeal that he’ll be brainwashed into thinking he loves it. That’s a rarity, but it would be interesting to see what kind of Joe that would produce. Deac lifted up the box and Joe stumbled back and forth, trying to maintain his stance. Deac couldn’t help laughing. “Your life’s already different. You used to be the most imposing beast of a man around. Now look at you! Any man could smack you around with just his hands!” To illustrate the point, Deac shook the box vigorously from side to side. Joe went flying from wall to wall like a ping-pong, finally collapsing on the ground. The Mini-Boxes that corporate gave them were designed to be impact-resistant. To Joe, it had felt like he was being slammed into foam rubber. The point, however, was to show the tiny man inside the box his vulnerability without harming him physically, and Deac had done just that. “Good luck, Joe, nice knowing you!” Deac said, setting the box down. He slammed the lid shot and locked the latch. He could see (but couldn’t hear) Joe frantically protesting within. He couldn’t tell if Joe was shouting hurtful obscenities or begging to be restored to normal, but Deac didn’t care. He had so much work to do, it was time to forget all about Joe Parotti and move on with things. He dropped the black silk cloth over the box and headed back out to the ETZ. Derek, seeing Deac carrying the box, grinned. “You have some fun with him?” Derek asked, a dopey grin on his face. Deac just smiled. “Now now, you realize we’ve got a job to do. This little thing’s gotta get couriered to corporate, and we need to take care of a few other things. Derek absentmindedly scratched his bulging pec as he nodded. Deac tried to keep his eyes on Derek’s face. “His car’s all taken care of, it’s gone, no witnesses.” “Great,” Deac said, heading for his office. “Plus, I already talked to Walter with the voice-masker.” Deac paused, turning around. “How’d it go?” “Great,” Derek said, “these new voice-maskers corporate sent work perfectly. He really believed I was Joe! He was pissed, but he bought it. So that’s all taken care of.” Deac held the box under one arm as he dug out his card-key again, swiping it to open his private office. He turned around backwards and pushed the door with his butt to open it, carrying the big black box with both hands. “One thing though,” Derek began, “Walter mentioned something about a girlfriend. There’s no mention on the Red coded info of what to do with any girlfriend. I’ve got Walter, his mom, his landlord…” “Forget about it,” Deac said, just shaking his head with a smile. “I found out about the girlfriend too, but let’s just leave her in the dark on this, okay?” Derek shook his head for a moment. “Poor Joe, hunh?” Deac exhaled loudly through his nostrils. “No, Derek, NOT 'poor Joe.' He made his decision, and it was the wrong one, and now that’s over. In reality, my big associate, we should be saying, ‘Poor us,’ because we’ve got a lot of work to do tonight, and in the next week to make up for Joe’s absence.” “Are we gonna change the plan?” Derek asked. Deac stopped, then shook his head. “The plan’s going to continue exactly as it would’ve, period. Leave the rest to me, just keep doing what we’re doing, understood?” Derek nodded. Deac smiled, backed into his office with his prize and let the door slam shut behind him. *end of introduction*

Curse of the Bog Witch

               Wyreh the Feeble heard the rustling sounds behind his cottage, but being a kind man, he approached not with a pitchfork but with a small loaf of bread from his cupboard. The rain had let up some but it was still bitter cold, and Wyreh took pity on whatever poor beggar he found out there.

               “You’ll catch your death in this!” Wyreh called out, using his lantern to light the area between his cottage and his barn. “I’ve brought some food for you, and you’re welcome to sleep in the barn if you’d like!”

               He found the intruder huddled up behind several stacked barrels. He’d expected one of the emaciated beggars he’d seen in town, or the mute orphan boy who wandered the woods at night. He was shocked to see a great big man—he could stare one of the king’s steeds in the eye, and was easily the same width!—crouched down, wearing chain mail spattered with the fluids of battle, and his helmet. He was shivering, which seemed almost amusing from a man his size.                When he turned, Wyreh recognized the insignia on the helmet (which covered so much of the man’s face, he would’ve never known his identity otherwise): “Why… Lars? Son of Erros the Smithy? What are you doing out here?” Lars was somewhat of a local hero, fancied by every maiden who drew a breath and idolized by every boy pretending wielding a branch as a sword. “For god’s sake, Lars, get inside out of this rain!”

               Inside, Wyreh started a small fire (when he was sure Lars wasn’t looking he traced a sigil in the air above the logs and a small flame burst forth, consuming the log) and turned to Lars, whose large soaked frame was dripping into quite a puddle. “Lars, you’re making quite a mess, my boy. Get yourself out of those clothes!” Wyreh reached toward the helmet Lars still wore. Frail old Wyreh couldn’t reach it, of course, but Lars still jerked away from the attempt. “No!” he growled. “Leave it on!” Lars stomped across the room and punched the wall, leaving a sizable dent.

               “Now, boy,” Wyreh said, leaning forward on his cane, “I certainly know you didn’t come here to put holes in an old man’s home. If you’ve got need of something, speak it out like a man, but if you insist on being difficult, I’ll have you out in the streets with the beggars.”

               Lars’ broad shoulders slumped and Wyreh heard him quietly sobbing. Wyreh had never seen the magnificent warrior like this! Since Lars was a young boy he’d shown no fear, no weakness. He was taller and stronger than most men before he was one. He’d slain his first orc at age twelve—beheaded a giant when he was twenty! He’d single-handedly cleared out the ogre infestation of the nearby wood, and had even slain a dragon! Last Wyreh remembered, Lars had headed out to slay the legendary bog witch. Nobody had ever confirmed the witch’s existence, but the tales told that she fed on the youth of young maidens. “Fear no longer, maidens!” Lars had declared to the congregated townsfolk before he set out, specifically addressing the young women who swooned in his presence.

               “The bog (oink) witch…” sobbed the large warrior. “She did this (oink) to me…” Lars’ hands shook as he reached up and removed his helmet. He turned around, revealing what was mostly Lars’ handsome striking face, but with a few alterations: his nose was now a wide, flat turned up pig’s snout. His lantern jaw seemed to jut a little further forward than usual and two large tusks protruded up above his lips. His ears had grown up, pointy at the top but floppy at the bottom. As he sobbed, Wyreh heard a distinct snort sound—a gentle, repetitive “oink” that it seemed Lars couldn’t help but make.

               Wyreh slowly hobbled forward and took a look at the large man. It was quite obviously a swine curse. “This seems to be some form of magic!” he said, playing dumb. “I’m but an old man, I can’t—“

               “I know you’re (oink) a wizard!” Lars interrupted. He grabbed the man’s withered shoulders with his large hands. “When I was (oink) a boy, I saw you (oink) making lights dance, and (oink) commanding the plants in your (oink) garden to grow! And they (oink) did! I (oink) saw them!”

               Wyreh shook his head. He’d sworn off magic when he’d left the Academy years ago, but as he’d gotten old he’d found that he couldn’t quite get by without it. A few times he’d gotten caught, and a simple spell had wiped their memories away. He would now have to do the same to Lars…

               “If you do nothing, old man,” Lars said, leaning in, his stance becoming aggressive, “I’ll tell the townspeople that you did this! They’ll be on you by nightfall! They’ll burn your little cottage to the ground, and no amount of sorcery will save you! What then, old man?”

               The few remaining teeth in Wyreh’s head chattered as Lars shook him back and forth. Lars was lauded by the townsfolk as a hero, but Wyreh had never had many kind words to say about him. As a child he was a relentless bully, and that never left him as he grew larger than everyone else. Many of the beasts Lars had slain were harmless without provocation, but Lars had stirred up the townsfolk’s mistrust with his grandstanding and wiped them all out to return to bask in glory.

               “Well, you’ve got my number now, don’t you?” Wyreh said. He retrieved his fallen cane from the floor and stroked it gently with his gnarled fingers. “It seems I have no choice but to undo this enchantment on you, poor lad. First things first, out of those clothes. I cannot help you if you’re all covered up. If I’m to restore your body, I need to see your body!”

               Slowly Lars undressed, removed his armor piece by piece. When he stood, naked, Wyreh couldn’t help but enjoy how the big man stood shyly, both hands covering his manhood.

               Wyreh did a lap around the naked brute. His body was magnificent—how many cows had been slain just to keep this man’s belly full, Wyreh wondered—but he noticed on the man’s tailbone a curly tail had sprung up. Wyreh grabbed it between his thumb and forefinger and yanked.

               “OW!” Lars shouted, swinging wildly at the old man. “What (oink) did you do?”

               “It appears you’ve grown yourself a piggy tail to go with that face of yours.” When Wyreh got around to Lars’ front, he noticed the aforementioned “manhood” could no longer be referred to as that—the man’s large organ had stumped and twisted, now a swine phallis, only good for humping other sows! “And there’s that,” Wyreh said, tapping Lars’ piggy genitals with his cane. Lars swiped the old man away and covered himself again.

               “I didn’t (oink)…” Lars began, examining the two pig-parts sprouting on his huge, rippling physique, “I didn’t… have these (oink) yesterday… It’s getting (oink) worse, isn’t it?”

               “Not to worry, my lad, come with me.” Wyreh dragged the pig-man (still naked) to his kitchen. Wyreh opened up his pantry, took a few steps in, then pried up a tile from the floor. From the space below he pulled out several brightly colored bottles, a jar filled with green ooze, and a few shimmering trinkets. With all of those items gathered in his arms, the two left the kitchen, Lars opening doors for the encumbered old mage.

               “Out in the barn, we’ll have to do this,” Wyreh shouted over the rain. “It’s a bit leaky in there, but there’s more room, you see, and I need a lot of room for what I’m going to do!” Lars followed the old man blindly, shivering in the rain.

               As Wyreh arranged the various magical items out in the barn, Lars gasped. “My (oink) hands! Look at my (oink) hands!” He held out a palm: his fingers had begun to fuse, the first two forming one stump, the other two forming another. Wyreh looked closely at them.

               “Those don’t look like hands,” he said, standing in the abandoned old pigsty and pouring out some glittery blue sand in a circle, “as much as they look like hooves! You’d best check those feet as well, it seems they’re reshaping as we speak!” Sure enough, seconds later Lars’ toes had begun to fuse and his feet were stumping down. Lars wobbled around unsteadily.

               “Now, stand in the circle,” Wyreh commanded, and Lars stepped into it. Wyreh gestured wildly with his cane, doused Lars with foul-smelling fluids from various bottles, and then took a handful of the green ooze and drawing a sigil on Lars’ expansive chest. He muttered some words that sounded ancient and powerful, then placed his hand on Lars’ stomach. “Evil curse, I command you to disperse!”

               Lars’ breaths were coming fast now, even more interrupted by oinks. “Nothing (oink) happened, you incomp-(oink)-etent imbe-(oink)-cile!” He examined himself, horrified to notice a layer of fat starting to form on his body. He poked at his now flabby midsection (which, only sections ago, was a rippling display of musculature) and wobbled it in the old man’s face. “I’m still (oink) changing!”

               “It’s a strong curse,” Wyreh said, looking Lars up and down—a fine layer of stiff brown hair had started to form all over him—“but my spell is doing its work to dissolve it. It simply takes time. Just relax, my boy, you’ll be whole again in no time.”

               Lars wasn’t soothed by the old man’s words. In fact, something was happening to his legs; they were getting shorter, it seemed, and restructuring. “I can (oink) barely (oink) stand!” Lars grunted.

               “So sit!” Wyreh said. Leaning on his cane, he walked into the shadows of the barn and opened a barrel. He fished around for a moment and then returned with a rotten old apple, collapsing in upon itself in foul black mush. “And while you’re at it, eat this,” he said, shoving the decayed fruit into Lars face.

               “No!” Lars said, turning his face away—but then, he seemed to pause, sniffing the air, reconsidering the smell. Then he leaned forward, a struggle apparent on his half-piggy face, and took the rotten apple into his mouth. It dropped to the ground and Lars fell on all fours, grunting loudly and greedily gobbling it up. When he stopped, he began to sob again. “Why (oink)… why did I (oink) eat that (oink) filth?”

               “Pigs are filthy creatures,” Wyreh said with a grin, walking a wide circle around the half-warrior half-swine. “They’ll eat just about anything. I used to have livestock here, years ago, but I’ve grown too old to tend to animals. But still, it’s a peaceful life I lead, my boy, and peaceful it shall remain.”

               Suddenly the muscles on Lars’ body seemed to be dissolving, replaced by smooth flabby flesh from head to toe. He noticed the change before it was entirely done, fearfully tilting his head this way and that as his strength ebbed away. He tried to rise to stand again but fell forward—he was stunned into silence for a moment when he realized his hips and shoulders had shifted, his arms and legs were all the same length now, and each one ended in a cloven pig’s hoof.

               “But (oink)… but your (oink) spell!” Lars said as the changes came on more dramatically. His body was more or less that of a large boar’s with a man’s head. “Your (oink) spell will (oink) make (oink oink) me a (oink oink oink) man (oink oink) again (oink) won’t it?”

               Wyreh shook his head as he backed out of the sty and swung the gate closed. “I’m an old man! I haven’t the power to reverse the work of the great bog witch!” he declared. “My, she sure is a magnificent creature; in my youth, I fancied her quite a bit. I couldn’t undo what she had done, but I could hurry the transformation along!” A look of horror spread across Lars’ face, but it was replaced as his features twisted and reshaped. It was clear the man—that is, former man—was trying to protest, but all that came out were loud squeals and oinks now.

               The next day, in the town’s marketplace, a man from a nearby farm handed over quite a lot of gold for the great boar that Wyreh had walked into town.

               “He seems rather docile!” the man said, kneeling down and staring into the massive creature’s face.

               “Ah, yes,” Wyreh said, handing over a flask. “Simply put a few drops of this in his feed. It will keep him nice and calm!” The potion within was merely meant to sedate the boar. It did nothing to erase the very human brain within. And he knew as the farmer led the boar away from the marketplace, past a few young maidens who had gathered to gawk at the hideous beast, that deep within the boar was still Lars, still yearned to stand proudly before these people’s admiration, but would forever be a shameful beast to them now. And if he was lucky, Wyreh thought, they would use him for breeding; a boar that size could produce many healthy offspring, and Lars could live the happiest life a boar could. If not, he’d end up a great source of meat—and he could bring joy to people with his ample, robust flesh one last time.

               As the farmer walked just past the city gates, Wyreh watched the boar look back at the town pitifully until he was roughly yanked along.

Trey didn’t notice anything was different until he hit his third pose--his arms seemed stiff, legs seemed heavy for some reasons. He was starting to get kind of inflexible, and as he tried to hit a side chest he noticed his mobility was impeded--by his own body. The audience watched as Trey’s body started to swell like rising dough. In minutes his 4% contest physique had swollen out to a thick, bulky off-season body--well over 300 pounds, and counting. Trey tried to play it off, trying not to at least finish his routine, but he knew by the look on the judges’ faces and the shocked gasps of the audience that something was seriously going on. And his body just kept swelling... ...400 pounds came and went quickly, and still his body gained mass. His massive quads pushed his legs apart. Soon he wobbled awkwardly, his feet so far apart that he worried he’d loose his balance and topple over. His arms had swollen so much that they now stood out straight, resting on the massive swollen lats that kept spreading, making the already gigantic frame even wider. Trey’s terrified face was soon swallowed up as his traps engulfed his head. Only his panicked eyes were visible around the mass of muscle, and he stood with his limbs out straight like a grossly exaggerated anatomy chart. The only movement he could manage was the wiggling of his fingertips, the only sound he could make past the traps and pecs that had swollen around his head was a faint whimpering, and still his body kept growing... And offstage, Cody, who was in second after prejudging, slipped the woman with the spray-tun gun $500 for adding his special additive before giving Trey his final spray.

http://youtu.be/UoZ8v2joYg4 This little diddy is IT--everything I love about muscleman transformations. First we have the perfect setup: two average, dorky (for the gym) skinny guys getting laughed at and bullied by the big cocky bodybuilder. (And look at the big guy's ass when he turns around. Amazing.) Then the big guy is cut down... And the best part is, while he shrinks and becomes scrawny, all that size is now his burden because he's got loose skin hanging everywhere. On top of everything, listen to the way the formerly-big guy's voice turns into a shrill squeal at the end. Oh man.

Awhile ago I posed a challenge to @absqrst--he picked a guy for me, I picked a guy for him, and each of us had to spin a tale of transformation for that dude. Wow-ee. I picked Joey Swoll--because honestly, they don't get more "cocky prettyboy musclefreak" than this guy--and look at what he spun together! I've said it before, I'll say it again: absqrst is GOOD at this game. (And might I add, welcome back buddy! We missed your fiction something fierce.)